


Never Laugh at Live Dragons

by Naamah_Beherit



Series: Feeding the sheep is prohibited [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguments, Cerebus Syndrome, Dialogue Heavy, Established Relationship, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Humour, M/M, Minor Character Death, Moral Dilemmas, Non-Graphic Violence, Obsession, POV Alternating, Sheep AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naamah_Beherit/pseuds/Naamah_Beherit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War makes people agree to things they would never do in different circumstances and a seemingly never-ending siege can light a fire of doubt in the most steadfast of hearts. So when help is suddenly offered, it is impossible not to reach for it, no matter what might be asked for in return.<br/><br/>In the world that is changing, allegiances are questioned, ancient legends are discussed, and unknown treasures can be found in the most unexpected of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vampiric_Charms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/gifts).



> As for the setting: this takes place at the end of the Second Age, shortly after events described in the previous story of this series. There was no war over the Nauglamír, so relations between the Elves and the Dwarves are mostly civil – not to mention that common sense can overcome petty grudges when disasters loom on the horizon. Pillaging of both Moria and Erebor is pushed back in time from the Third Age to the Second.
> 
> With special dedication to Vampiric_Charms: you mentioned once you loved "The Hobbit" and Smaug. There’s not much left of the former once the idea have been ground at the mill of this little AU (it’s not so little anymore, it would seem), but the latter is still present and will have a thing or two to say. Or an entire monologue, probably. It is a dragon we’re talking about, after all.
> 
> Enjoy!

(...)

"From long ago when lanterns burned  
Till this day our hearts have yearned  
Her fate unknown, the Arkenstone  
What was stolen must be returned"

Neil Finn _Song of the Lonely Mountain_

 

* * *

 

“Oi! You! You overgrown blindworm!”

Wind carried those words over the scorched earth and burnt bones to echo against the shattered façade of Erebor, the crown jewel of a kingdom that had not got a chance to reach its full potential. Lost beyond hope of recovery it was; marred with grief and memory of thousands dead, of wealth unspeakable that had been ripped from a dwarven grasp.

“Did a goblin lay an egg from which ya hatched? ‘Cause yer not looking like any dragon I’ve seen!” yet again yelled a Dwarf standing on top of a makeshift hill located just outside the range of dragon fire. An entire battalion of the dwarven artillery was stationed around him, their machines ready to fire at the mere sight of a dragon that had chased them away from their home.

“As if ya’ve seen any other dragon beside this one,” snorted one of the Dwarves manning the nearest catapult.

“And what, maybe ya did?” retorted the one tasked with dubiously reasonable assignment of luring the dragon away from its lair inside the mountain. “It’s not like there are dragons everywhere ya go.”

“He’s speaking of yer missus, ya dimwit!” someone else chimed in, which made the entire company burst out laughing. “She’s just as fat and takes all your gold. No wonder ya can’t taunt this one, she blunted your tongue!”

“Ya say one more word ‘bout my wife and I’ll set your beard on fire!”

A weak, but unmistakably angry hiss could be heard from halls carved within the mountain, a sound loud enough to be carried across the field.

“Oi, it’s working,” someone observed in an indifferent voice. “It must be related to her, mentioning yer missus does the trick better than that pitiful rambling of yers. Hey! Scaly arse! Tell us, did ya run away from Galin’s charming wife? ‘Cause ya seem like someone who’d do just that!”

Something faint began to shine behind stones of the ruined gate, and quickly gained on brightness almost to a point of blinding. Most would run away, anticipating with probability bordering on certainty what that light meant and what was going to follow, but not the Dwarves. Shaped by hands unrelenting and brought to life by sheer stubbornness of their creator, the only way they ran was towards their machines which maybe, one impossible day, would help them succeed. Maybe, just maybe, stubbornness and sturdiness and an overwhelming need to regain what had been lost would be enough to have that one victory no one had ever achieved before.

“Wait for it,” Galin commanded even though he did not really need to do it. So many iterations had they already been through, so many fruitless attempts that had resulted only in increasing their frustration until it reached a point of being almost unbearable.

The light shone brighter, a tremor rippled through the mountain and the ground around it, and suddenly Erebor exploded in fire, smoke, and the fury of the dragon, uncontrolled and unparalleled in its destructiveness.

“Aim at the gate! Do not let it crawl back! _Loose_!”

Stones were in the air before the beast even fully emerged from the mountain, their trajectories tested and perfected though countless attempts at gaining at least the tiniest bit of upper hand. But just as the Dwarves learnt, so did the dragon, and the precision of their attacks was met with swiftness and reptilian agility. It did not dare to leave the safety of the mountain halls, a simple self-preservation and greed for the dwarven treasures causing the dragon’s attacks fail because of mere lack of space for manoeuvre. Neither were the Dwarves brave enough to abandon safety of the distance, images of fire and death burning vividly in their minds, paralysing and constricting. And so they threw their stones at the dragon, and it avoided them just as it always did.

Such was the forty sixth day of the siege of Erebor, the day when far in the south the King of Men challenged the King of the Noldor, and a spark was given to the fire that would consume them both.

 

* * *

 

“This is a bloody nonsense,” Durin IV commented drily, his voice full of barely contained frustration. He turned away from the chaos unfolding below and stormed off back to a tent that was his home since the siege had begun. Truth be told, he was more used to sleeping in tents now than to resting in real beds.

He had already forgotten what it was like to have a home.

“For once I entirely concur,” admitted an Elf lazily following him. “But, as you might remember, I advised against this course of actions, even though it seems to be favoured greatly by your troops.”

Durin glanced at the Elf, but his gaze held no real ire. Mild irritation, perhaps, and resignation as well, but no anger; he could not afford to lose allies. Not in times and situation like those he had found himself in. Allies were a short commodity, each one of them precious and irreplaceable. He might not love the prince of Greenwood the Great, but damn him to the fire that dwelt beneath Khazad-dûm if he alienated the folk that had come to his aid in the time of need.

“And what else is there to do?” he asked, bitterness underlying his every word. “Storm the gate and lose thousands? Or do nothing and lose everything? The beast has come to stay, and we...”

He could not force himself to finish that sentence.

“My father and I,” Thranduil began, handing Durin a glass of wine as if it were an answer to every problem in Arda, “still believe that it is wiser to retake Hadhodrond rather than Erebor. You are well aware that its strategic value is far greater than that of the mountain.”

Durin downed the wine in one swig and slammed the glass onto the table and a war map covering it.

“Khazad-dûm is lost beyond hope,” he growled in anger that had long but lost its fire. “Nothing can get past that... _thing_ that took it as its lair.”

“I would not be so hasty to assume that,” Thranduil warned in tone so unusual for him in its seriousness. “Ered Luin protect us from those who live beyond them, but no one can be sure when they decide that Beleriand is not enough. If anything can be certain in this world, it is that one must never underestimate the Noldor. I would not put it past them to gather their forces and march on Hadhodrond just to prove everyone that they can vanquish whatever settled itself there.”

“There isn’t much love between you and your folk in Beleriand, is it?” Durin asked, settling himself in a chair that had become his throne. It was old and battleworn, just like he was. Like they all were. “It always amazes me how much bad blood can be between those of the same kin.”

Thranduil grunted something unintelligible and poured himself another drink. “We are not of the same kin,” he finally said. “Our loyalty lies with Elu Thingol. The Noldor... I do not think there is a single soul that appreciates their presence in Middle-earth.”

Durin looked at the scowl twisting the prince’s face, and realised that he had never taken into consideration that there might be yet another conflict boiling slowly under the surface up till it was already too late to contain it.

“Will they be a problem?”

“They already _are_ a problem,” Thranduil snorted and laughed; a brief sound, dry and utterly mirthless, “but so far only Thingol’s. Hopefully it will stay this way.”

The Dwarf looked at the map and felt something tug at his heart. So little was left that had not been touched by turmoil and one war or another. So few could live carefree.

“The dragon, that thing of shadow and fire...” he mused, tracing the line of the Misty Mountains with his finger, calloused and more familiar with an axe than the paper. “Foul things walk across Middle-earth unchecked and there is nothing we can do. How could we let that happen? Is there no way to put an end to this?”

Thranduil was silent for a moment, his eyes focused on something distant in both time and space, something maybe only the Elves could see.

“There are legends,” he admitted after a while. “Old tales all but forgotten, rumours passed over centuries until no truth remained in them. We do not speak of them, because everyone had been taught that it was best to forget, to leave those stories untold because if spoken about, they could suddenly come true and then we would wish our only problems were dragons, old spirits, and the Noldor.”

Durin cast a sideways glance at him over the map, surprised both at the tone of the prince’s voice and a grave expression of his face. He had known Oropher’s son for years and had never before seen that side of him. Maybe it was because of his newborn son, maybe because of the topic of their conversation, but the Dwarf came to a conclusion that he liked this side of Thranduil. Seriousness suited him.

“Do elaborate, my friend,” he prompted. “It’s not as if the siege is going to end soon, so we have time for your tale. I surely miss entertainment nowadays.”

“Entertainment,” the Sinda pouted and downed his drink. Durin wondered sometimes if there possibly were an amount of wine that would make the prince drunk. An experiment for another time, perhaps. “As if fragments of tales from past ages could be called entertainment.”

“Very well, then let us sit in silence and watch my mountain with that damned dragon sleeping inside it.”

“Was that an attempt at a joke?” Thranduil asked, his brow raised almost comically high. “Well, well, I might yet manage to make a decent person out of you.”

“If it’s such a big deal to you, I’ll go and look for an Elf without your reservations.”

This time the prince laughed openly and took a moment to refill both their glasses as if he could not stand their emptiness.

 _Mahal almighty,_ Durin thought, _this woodland sprite can probably outdrink a Khuzd._

“You will find no Elf on this side of Ered Luin who would tell you what you want to know,” he finally said and settled himself in his chair. Durin had tried it once; he had had an impression that he would drown in all that plush. “You would have to travel to Beleriand for that and even then the only person able to tell you anything certain would be the queen of Doriath. But if you want nothing except legends, I can give you that.”

“There’s a seed of truth in every legend,” the Dwarf pointed out, even though his subjects were more concerned about a mundane reality and daily worries. He could not care less about old fairytales himself, but as he had absolutely nothing else to do... Not to mention that maybe, just maybe, he would find something interesting in elven legends. One never knew what could prove useful in the long run.

“I do not know anything for sure,” Thranduil said as a manner of warning, “but there are some among the Noldor who had shared a few stories once they had settled themselves in Beleriand. They spoke of a Vala that is rumoured to live in Middle-earth instead of Valinor for reasons unknown. Some say he is at odds with the rest of the Valar, others claim he is more fond of the world he had created than the rest of his kin. There are stories of a war that had ravaged the North about the time of the awakening at Cuiviénen, but we know naught of it, and the Valar had not spoken a word about it so there is no way of verifying if it had anything to do with him. Whoever he might have been, he had already been gone when the Quendi reached Valinor. There is no name to be attributed to him, no place to start looking for him. Only old tales and fears whispered before dawn.”

“So you’re saying,” Durin slowly began, unsure whether he should laugh or start worrying for the prince’s sanity, “that there is someone out there in the world whom I can find and kick in the bollocks for allowing this to happen even though he’s more than capable of putting a definitive end to this madness?”

The Elf choked on the wine he was swallowing and bent over in a coughing fit, eyes wide open and face red; a sight that in different circumstances would have been comical. Durin somehow – barely, if he were to admit – managed to hold back a laugh.

“I would not deem it wise,” Thranduil whimpered in a voice that was unlike his usual tone. “If the legends are true, of course. At best it would result in no success as the Valar do not answer prayers or demands no matter where they live.”

The Dwarf suddenly lost any inclination to laugh.

“The Khazâd don’t know much about the Valar except mayhap for Mahal,” he finally said when the silence became unbearable, “but with everything that has happened in this age alone... They have forsaken Middle-earth, haven’t they? They took your people in, and that’s about it. The rest of us is... irrelevant.”

“And yet there is one that may walk the same land as we do,” the prince pointed out thoughtfully, watching the sunlight shining through the wine remaining in his glass. “Imagine it, my friend. All those souls willing to pledge their allegiance to him. The Vala right here in Middle-earth, while the rest of them could not be farther away from the world they claim to rule and watch over. It would be only natural, don’t you think?”

Durin was absolutely certain that Oropher would forgive him if he decided to beat some sense into that blond head of his heir. To give voice to such claims, even though nothing more than legends was mused on... It was stupidity and recklessness unspeakable. Nothing but trouble could be brought by those words, he realised; his reaction surprising even himself. After all, he shunned legends, tales that accumulated so many layers of unnecessary addenda and far-fetched assumptions that it was no longer possible to tell the truth from lies. But, as he had said himself, every legend had originated _somewhere_ and if even a fraction of those stories were true...

For the first time in his life, the dwarven king wondered why his people kept no records of the beginning of the First Age.

“Those are dangerous assumptions, Thranduil,” he finally said to the prince in a manner of warning and desperate pleading alike. “I hope you don’t usually talk about them so unabashedly as you’ve done just now. One would think you truly... _considered_ it.”

Thranduil raised his eyes to let them rest on the Dwarf, his timeless gaze unreadable. “I have,” he admitted with openness that chilled Durin’s blood. “It would be unwise _not_ to consider a possibility that a Vala might be our neighbour unbeknownst to us. Should the Númenóreans attack, should the Noldor cross Ered Luin and the Hithaeglir... I would very much like to witness them trespassing on _his_ land wherever it may actually be. No one can be blamed for wishing their problems resolved in such a way.”

The Dwarf felt a pang of amusement that almost made him smile. Almost.

“You told me it was nothing but a legend,” he accused the Elf, not even trying to conceal his distress. He would be stupid not to feel at least trepidation once the awareness of possible implications sank in. If there were a Vala living in Middle-earth instead of a far-away land shrouded by ancient spells and protected with magic beyond comprehension, if he were truly here and they did not even know it...

Durin realised he was going to look over his shoulder and second-guess every decision up till his last breath.

“It is,” the prince of Greenwood the Great smirked knowingly as he sipped his wine. “I did, however, manage to ask queen Melian a few questions the last time I had visited Doriath. And though she neither confirmed nor dispelled my apprehension, the look in her eyes was enough. There is more to that tale that she was willing to admit.”

“Don’t you realise that there must be grave reasons for her to withhold the truth from you?” the Dwarf asked in anguish, his heart struck with a sudden need to see the gleam of mischief and cynical haughtiness that usually shone in Thranduil’s eyes.

“The world is changing, my friend. If the worst comes to pass, we may find ourselves under attack and there will be no hope to emerge unscathed. If I were to ensure the safety of my kin, I would not hesitate to convince my father to do that by any means necessary. Would you do any less?”

There was reason in his words, Durin knew that. They made sense in that particular kind of way that captured one’s attention, promised profits unimaginable and demanded even more in return. To even consider a possibility of such an alliance was to court the rage of all the Valar in order to gain the favour of one that might be nothing but a legend. And even if he were not, even if he did live in some remote area of Middle-earth, it would be insane to think of approaching him. One could never trust someone _that_ different.

“I don’t think I would do _that_ ,” he finally said, deciding not to mention that he was going to have a lengthy conversation with Oropher about this subject next time they met. “Where does this Vala live?”

“Alas, nobody knows,” Thranduil answered wistfully, and a quick thankful prayer to Mahal crossed Durin’s mind. “Do not be so gloom, my friend, such face is more suited for a defeat rather than a warm summer afternoon. We have not lost yet.”

“Did you really think—” Durin began in exasperation, but was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of one of the elven scouts tasked with observing the ruins of Dale. He thought it to be an overly extensive precaution with no reason for it except, perhaps, Thranduil’s paranoid approach to the safety of his troops. After all, who in their right minds would willingly come to a place where nothing but fire and death could be found?

The scout said something to the prince whose expression was getting increasingly grim as he listened. He stood up and reached for his sword as soon as the Elf finished his report.

“What is it?” Durin asked and got to his feet as well. He grabbed his axe and rested it on his shoulder in one, swift move practised over decades of using it. He still hoped to bathe it in the dragon’s blood.

“There is an intruder in the city and I do _not_ like his description,” Thranduil answered in an angry voice and gestured towards the exit. “Shall we?”

“Is there anything else to do?” the Dwarf answered with a rhetorical question of his own and wasted no time on dallying.

“You can always wait here as I deal with him myself.”

“Over my dead body.”

Thranduil let out an amused snort and led him through the camp. It was gradually losing any semblance of being a temporary one and if the siege lasted a few more months, they would find themselves with the first dwarven city located in the open air. It was something Durin did not want to be remembered for.

“So what is it about this intruder that has unsettled you so much?” he asked Thranduil once he caught a glimpse of something viciously red in the ruins above.

“Red hair, tall, ego too big for his own good,” the Sinda replied with venom in his voice as he swiftly climbed up the partially burnt staircase. “There are only three individuals to whom all these traits can be applied at the same time, and all of them are sons of that insane Noldo.”

“How many does he have?” Durin casually prompted, trying to withhold curiosity from his voice. He had heard rumours, but had so far been unable to confirm any of them.

“Seven,” Thranduil replied with a scowl that left wrinkles on his perfectly shaped nose. The Dwarf burst out laughing, which earned him a perplexed and slightly offended glare from his companion.

“Say what you will about him,” he began as a manner of explanation, “but at least he bedded his wife often enough to sire seven children. That alone is an achievement.”

“I pity his wife,” the prince maliciously chuckled and then fell silent as they entered a large terrace overlooking the valley below.

Four elven soldiers were standing there around the redheaded intruder who was leaning against the railing, his form relaxed in a way that heavily contrasted with the blades being pointed at him. He was wearing elegant clothes in various shades of red and black, embroidered with likenesses of wolves sewn in a golden thread with such attention to details that it had probably taken months to finish them. A large, ornamental brooch kept his cloak draped around his shoulders, and it was the finest piece of jewellery Durin had ever laid his eyes upon. It was crafted in a form of an eye encircled by flames and intertwined with a silhouette of a dragon, all shapes basic and meant to convey the meaning more than a real image. But the craftsmanship... oh, the craftsmanship that must have been needed to create that brooch ignited envy in Durin’s heart.

The tiniest of movements caught his attention and made him look up at the redhead’s face. Once he did, he was unable to turn his gaze away. Those eyes... Oh, Mahal almighty, those eyes, gold and ancient and disturbingly _alien_ , focused on him with unnervingly intensive curiosity. It made his skin crawl and his stomach twist nauseatingly in a surge of fear, and he could not remember the last time he had felt like that. For he had, that was certain, no one could forget what it was like to be prey facing a predator.

 _His eyes resemble gold being melted in a forge_ , he thought unwillingly and then it hit him. Fire. The last time he had felt a similar kind of dread was when he had faced the fiery demon of Khazad-dûm.

Thranduil could say whatever he wanted, but the man in front of him was no Elf. Durin was willing to shave his own beard if proven wrong.

“Speak your name,” the Sinda demanded from behind his back and his voice finally broke whatever it was that made the Dwarf unable to look away, “and the reason why you are here, for only a madman willingly enters the desolation of Smaug.”

“Smaug?” the redhead repeated the dragon’s name and let out a brief laugh. “Ah, of course it _had_ to be Smaug, it all makes sense now.”

It made absolutely _no_ sense, but Durin decided against telling him that.

“Who are you?” Thranduil all but snapped at the intruder. It was probably the first time his command had ever been ignored. “And what are you doing here? Speak, for I am growing weary with your impudence. Know that these are _my_ troops that surround you.”

“Is that how you treat loyal customers of your father, Thranduil Oropherion?” the redhead asked, unconcerned with that obvious threat. “I have never given much thought to planting and growing the grapevine myself, but it seems that I will be forced to. A shame, really, as I have grown rather fond of your wine over those few centuries. I would hate to have to begin producing my own now.”

Durin glanced at the prince just in time to see his face lose all its colour. He had seen many expression on the Sinda’s face, ranging from amusement to various stages of irritation, but never before had he witnessed such pure, uncontrollable terror. Even though he were unlikely to ever use this knowledge, he filed away information that a possibility of Oropher’s displeasure at him was apparently the only thing that could kindle fear in Thranduil’s heart.

“The Ringmaker,” the Elf said, apparently recognising the intruder. He barked an order at his troops who immediately lowered their weapons and took a few steps back. “I did not realise—”

“Well, we have never seen each other before, have we not?” the redhead shrugged, tapping his fingers idly on the balustrade. Durin noticed a single ring he wore on that hand, a simple band of gold with tiny inscriptions along its length that seemed to glow from _within_ the gold rather than be engraved on its surface. The effect was almost hypnotising. “Thus I would be quite surprised if you knew who I was. Still, threatening everyone who approaches is quite extreme, don’t you think?”

“These are uncertain times,” Thranduil answered matter-of-factly, seemingly having regained some of his usual composure. “To be honest, I thought you were someone else.”

“Did you, now? And whom did you take me for?”

“Someone thankfully far away from here,” the prince retorted gracefully, his perfect skills of flattery and diplomacy finally coming back to life as well. “Pray tell, master Ringmaker, what is it that brought you here?”

The redhead pouted and glanced at the Lonely Mountain with a furrowed brow. Durin did not like that thoughtful grimace in the slightest. It silently screamed of troubles approaching with a fury of thunderstorms, ready to swallow his mountain and leave nothing in their wake.

“The Ringmaker,” he said instead, turning his golden eyes back at them. “Is that what you call me?”

Thranduil blinked a few times, taken aback by that unexpected question. “That is what my father calls you, yes,” he answered in obvious bewilderment. “The Ringmaker, or Cordan in our language, for you have never given him your name.”

“There is power in names,” the redhead pointed out, “and mine are many. One more makes no difference... though I admit it _is_ rather plain, that one. How about Heru i-Million instead? Or Annatar, perhaps, for I have indeed brought you a gift.”

“Oh, really?” Durin asked before Thranduil managed to speak. His tone was much harsher than it was acceptable in these circumstances, but he did not care. He accepted Oropher’s offer of help during the siege, but that was the limit of his tolerance. No snarky redhead with an overgrown ego was needed around. “And what would that be?”

“A gift of freedom and peace,” he answered with a smirk. “Rejoice, for today you will find yourself free of the dragon.”

At that Durin found himself unable to protest anymore, his reservations drowned beneath an ocean of hope and relief, and only a small part of him kept whispering that offers such as that, no matter how impossible, never came without a price to be paid afterwards.

And he had nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Glossary:_  
>  Hadhodrond (S), Khazad-dûm (K) – Moria  
> Ered Luin (S) – the Blue Mountains  
> the Hithaeglir (S) – the Misty Mountains  
> Khuzd, pl. Khazâd (K) – Dwarves  
> Mahal (K) – maker, dwarven name for Aulë  
> Cordan (S); composed of cor: ring, -dan: maker – ringmaker  
> Heru i-Million (Q) – Lord of the Rings  
> Annatar (Q) – Lord of Gifts  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

The Dwarves were… _not_ what Mairon had expected.

He had heard about them, of course. Eru’s adopted Children, the most precious of Aulë’s creations. He had used that knowledge more than once in ages of yore in what seemed to be a different life, to sway and taunt and spread discord amongst the Maiar following the Great Smith, to sow a seed of doubt and despair in hearts of those who had been willing to listen. And willing they had been, more than once, more than enough, and sometimes he wondered how easy it was to bring to light emotions that were boiling beneath the surface.

And for all the instances he had used truths, half-truths and blatant lies including the Dwarves in any way, he had never met one himself. A long time ago he had not cared enough to do that, and after the treaty...

The treaty had turned his life upside down and amongst all the worries it had caused and all the problems to solve, the Dwarves had never made it to the list of his concerns. If he were to muse on this subject, he would rather envision them as beings similar to Aulë – carefree and merry and prone only to reasonable choices.

Throwing stones at a dragon was something he had not taken under consideration. Melkor was probably going to find that idea amusing.

“Forgive this uncomfortable accommodation, lord Cordan,” Thranduil’s voice brought Mairon’s thoughts back to reality. He reached out and accepted a goblet which was being handed over to him. “We have not expected a friendly soul seeking us out in this place.”

Mairon tasted the wine and sighed somewhat contentedly. It was his favourite type, sweet and delightfully fruity, the one he had been ordering for the last five hundred years. Naturally, Melkor complained about it – he claimed they would be able to make a liquor of surpassing taste if they only put their minds to it. And yet the peace had mellowed them both in time and somehow comfort had been found in that simple routine which was basically their only interaction with the world outside the borders of their land.

“There is nothing to forgive, my prince,” he said, leaning back in the chair that had been procured for him. “Luxuries are rarely found in the time of war.”

“Do you know what’s even less likely to be found?” the Dwarf chimed in, obviously having come to a decision it was time for him to join the conversation. “Friendly souls in places like this.”

“Durin...” Thranduil began and did not finish, apparently uncertain of what could be said that would not offend either him, or their guest. He seemingly chose to disregard the remark that was clearly a mockery of his own words. Mairon, on the other hand, looked at the Dwarf with an amused smile, one practised to perfection after aeons of dealing with Curumo.

“I am not going to disclose my intentions to you, Child of Aulë,” he said, “neither do I need to justify my presence here. I will, however, assure you that we have come here to deliver you from this nonsense of a dragon, because it is in our best interest not to let situations like this one arise in Arda. Do not assume anything resembling noble intentions for it would be in vain, but you can safely put your faith in our sense of self-preservation.”

The Dwarf – Durin, Thranduil had called him; Mairon decided he would remember that name for the time being – scowled and let out a huff of irritation. It conveyed his disrespect better than any words he might have possibly spoken instead.

“I am a king,” he finally announced and Mairon sighed heavily at that statement, “and even I don’t speak about myself as ‘we’. It’s pretentious and pitiful.”

“Common speech is laughably simple,” the Maia retorted, quenching his temper which was gradually shifting towards the prospect of becoming foul. It was not the time for this to happen. Not yet, anyway. “I have, however, assumed you were familiar with it and I would not find myself in need of a third party tasked with translating my words. You do realise ‘we’ can also refer to more than one person at the time, do you not?”

Durin rolled his eyes and it was something that definitely had not originated from Aulë. The smith had never been inclined to such obvious displays of contempt and annoyance.

“Just what I needed,” the Dwarf groaned, “another wayward nuisance to add to you and the dragon.”

Mairon’s temper flared and he did nothing to calm himself this time.

“Oh, because you are doing so well on your own now, with your silly little encampment and careless forces,” he said, his voice sharp and cold as steel. “It is only a matter of time before the dragon gets hungry and when it does, you are all here sprawled on a silver plate for him to reach out and devour you one by one.”

Durin got to his feet, fuming and without any inclination to control his anger. He crossed the space between himself and Mairon, and stopped at a hand’s reach. “Are you saying that we are _weak_?” he asked in a low voice.

The Maia rose from his chair and looked down with a smirk twisting his lips. Such hotheadedness so uncannily resembled Tulkas’ behaviour, with this utter disregard for consequences and innate conviction to act first and worry later. Had he not known that Aulë alone had been responsible for creating the Dwarves, he would have assumed that the champion of the Valar had had a part in that as well.

“Yes,” he finally answered the question, “that is exactly what I am saying. The Urulóki had been created to conquer the world and leave nothing but death and ruin in their wake. Every mortal creature, be that a Dwarf, an Elf, or a Man, is weak and destined to crumble and fail when forced to face a dragon. You have ordered your soldiers to throw _boulders_ at a creature bred with intention of fighting foes innumerable. I cannot decide whether you are stupid, or simply suicidal.”

Thranduil’s face was the colours of ash, his eyes full of panic he made no effort of concealing. Durin, on the other hand, was almost just as red as Mairon’s hair, his hands balled into fists quite possibly capable of crushing stones. Mairon was always surprised how easy it was to push the mortal over the edge of their composure. All it took was few words and their tempers flared and erupted with the strength of a volcano, saving him the necessity of spending considerable time and effort needed to coerce them into whatever he wanted.

It was almost a pity he no longer needed that skill.

“Say that one more time,” Durin began, “and I will—“

“You will what?” the Maia asked with curiosity. The threat would have sounded much less ridiculous if it had not been spoken by someone whose head barely reached his waist. “Dismiss me? _Strike_ me? Then I will know for certain you are suicidal.”

He could not recall if the peace treaty allowed killing mortals in self-defence. A diligent re-acquainting himself with all those clauses was apparently in order.

“My lords, please,” Thranduil rushed in between them, no doubt with every intention of stopping a fight before it broke out. Not that he would succeed, but Mairon admired his courage. “Let us remain on civil terms. We are all here to see the dragon perish, are we not?”

“ _I_ am here to witness it being dragged back to whence it came,” Mairon corrected and sat in the chair again. “However, there is a possibility that Smaug will not live to see another sunrise. Young dragons are not prone to reason.”

“Good,” Durin blurted out, his hands shaking. “Let it die and rot here to serve as a warning for any other dragon nurturing intentions of sacking my mountain.”

“That is highly unlikely to ever happen again.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert on dragon behaviour now?” the Dwarf said mockingly and with a great deal of bitterness which had sprouted from a rich soil of his defeat. “Do I get a compensation if your words eventually turn out to be nothing but wishful thinking as I expect they will?”

Mairon felt the fire creep down his arms to the tips of his fingers, whispering tantalisingly and begging to be released. He clenched his fists and pushed that energy back into the iron grip of his will, unwilling to let it be known how much that Dwarf was vexing him. Perhaps if he hinted at his nature, at one of his names which used to be whispered in fear...

Had he only been remembered, maybe it would have worked.

A delicate, comforting tug came to him along the cords of the connection he shared with Melkor, and he sent a calm reassurance as his own answer. Nothing was burning. Not yet.

“It is advisable to move your forces away from the mountain,” he said after a moment of tense silence during which Durin was sulking and Thranduil was apparently looking for an excuse to leave the tent. Alas, he found none. “More space will be required there. _Much_ more.”

“For what,” Durin almost spat, “your ego?”

“For help that will soon arrive. I came here merely to assess the situation which will be taken care of by someone else entirely.”

“And who would that be? Because you keep hinting at that, but conveniently forgot to mention any details.”

Mairon smirked and took a sip of his wine. It was nothing more but unnecessary dramatics, that pause, but at the same time he was unable to deny himself a pleasure of subjecting Durin to that infuriating suspense. He had learnt it from Melkor, he suspected; the Vala’s penchant for the dramatics was uncanny, untreatable, and contagious. Even the dragons inherited that particular characteristic of their creator, so it was not surprising in the slightest that he had picked it up along the road as millennia came and went, and the world changed around them.

“Why, a bigger dragon of course. No other living being is better suited to deal with a disobedient hatchling.”

There was a moment of silence in which Durin blinked once, twice, and his face went scarlet.

“You bloody son of—“ he began and then darkness fell over the world.

“DRAGON!” someone yelled outside and the reality erupted into chaos. A cacophony of sounds filled the air with its deafening tune, and before Mairon could react in any way to that unfinished insult which would most likely—even though unknowingly—have ended up being directed at Eru himself, Durin dashed towards the exit with Thranduil at his heel.

It took three seconds for the awareness of what they were looking at to sink in.

“I told you,” Mairon said and rose to his feet to join them outside, “much more space was needed.”

It was as if the world split in two – one part of it was chaos uncontrollable, panicked screams, and gut-wrenching terror which took over the minds of Elves and Dwarves alike and left no room for conscious thoughts. The remaining part contracted to that one small spot on a hill where Durin’s tent had been put up, sticking up above all that madness like a solitary beacon of sanity.

 “What—what is—“ Thranduil stuttered, his face almost expressionless in its overwhelming bewilderment.

“Mahal, help us,” Durin whispered at the same, the axe slipping from his lifeless grip.

“Do not call upon his name, I beg you,” Mairon suggested with mild irritation as his imagination willingly supplied him with images of what such a meeting would undoubtedly entail. “He might decide to make an appearance and it would be—awkward, to say the least.”

His remark went unnoticed as the pandemonium in front of them unfolded like a living being, one that would make Melkor delighted as it was caused by his own creation – and it most likely did if emotions reaching him through their connection were any indication. The dragons had been bred with a sole purpose of turning the tide of war in Melkor’s favour, but those wars had never been waged and so no chance had come to test the Urulóki to the extent of their abilities.

They had begun their journey only with newly hatched Glaurung, who had curled up around Mairon’s neck in search of warmth as Angband had been left behind and exchanged for an uncertain future in the unknown world, but it ended up with a broader variety of those pesky lizards than probably even Melkor had envisioned when he had sung his first spell about them. And one of them... Oh, one of them exceeded expectations.

If only his attention could be focused on deeds greater than herding sheep.

“This will not do,” Ancalagon the Black grumbled haughtily as he tried to settle himself on a mountain, his booming voice resounding across the desolation like a thunder. He strikingly resembled an overgrown chicken perching on a roost far too small for it. “This will not do at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Glossary:_  
>  Urulókë, pl. Urulóki (Q) - fire-dragons, fire-drakes


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

There were constants in Eä, certain things meant to make it look as if it were perfect and planned and flawless like no creation could ever be. There were patterns and order, and comfort in both of those. And because of that, it should not have been possible for silence to fall over a battlefield.

If only he cared to focus his attention on them, Mairon would be able to hear heartbeats of all Dwarves and Elves in the encampment. His confident steps were reverberating in the air like thunderclaps, and the staccato of footsteps behind him was like an avalanche when Durin and Thranduil were running at his heel, their eyes full of terror. Mairon would have laughed, would have told them exactly how little merit their reaction had, would have—

He would have done great many things if he only did not crave the comfort of his and Melkor’s sanctuary so much that it almost physically pained him. He desired the peace of mind he had found in the simplicity and routine of what his life now entailed. Suffice to say, Mairon wanted to go home.

“Sire?” called one of the Dwarves huddled against the wooden bulk of the catapult. “Do we... which dragon do we target now?”

The Maia ignored him. Judging by the silence behind his back, so did Durin.

“This is ridiculous,” Ancalagon complained and his voice echoed across the desolation. He was currently trying to wrap his tail around something— _anything—_ but finding nothing suitable.

“Stop fidgeting,” Mairon suggested in a version of Valarin he and Melkor had developed since their departure from Angband and which had subsequently been taught to the dragons. He came to a halt at a considerable distance from the ruined gate of Erebor, rested his hands on his hips and tilted his head upwards to look at the disgruntled dragon. “You will bring the entire mountain down at this rate and this is not exactly the purpose of our visit.”

He frowned, suddenly distracted, for there was... _something_ in the air; not a sound, but more the absence of it, a steady hum seeping into cracks in the fabric of the world Mairon had not noticed upon his arrival. Only now when the impossible became possible and he could easily separate a slithery graze of scales against stones from the collective murmur of breaths, that hum caught his attention and refused to let go. It was alien and yet familiar at the same time, like a memory of a dream once dreamt and almost forgotten.

And it was calling to him.

“Have you learnt which of the youngsters is responsible for this?” Ancalagon’s voice brought his mind back to reality.  “I would really like to know whom I am supposed to yank out of this rock.”

“It is Smaug,” Mairon answered, focusing his thoughts on the matter at hand once more. The unidentified hum melted into background noises and within seconds he was practically certain he had imagined it. “It seems his tumultuous youth is _truly_ tumultuous.”

“Smaug?” two voices repeated that name in unison.

“Which one is that?” asked the greatest dragon in Arda with genuine interest and not a small bit of confusion.

“That insolent whelp,” muttered the mightiest of all Valar, who up to this point had been focused mostly on climbing down Ancalagon’s wing, which was quite a narrow and steep way to the ground. Not to mention that there were numerous other possible means of getting off the dragon’s back, but alas, they had all been discarded in favour of a dramatic entrance.

Mairon was watching Melkor’s slightly uncertain steps with a puzzling mixture of warm affection and tired exasperation he had not felt in a long time... perhaps even since the beginning of their relationship when everything had been new and thrilling. He attributed it to two ages of their voluntary seclusion and the excitement caused by this rather drastic and unforeseen change of their usual daily routine.

And to those horrified gasps made by Durin and Thranduil as well, because they were truly _exquisite_.

“How was your flight?” he asked when Melkor finally jumped onto the ground and approached them. Sunlight gleamed on sharp edges of his armour which had been repaired, cleaned and polished to a point of resembling a new one.

“Boring,” said the Vala with disdain and rested his eyes on Mairon’s companions, curiosity springing to life and reflected momentarily on his expressive face.

“Horrible,” Ancalagon added and folded the wing that was so shamelessly used as nothing but a ladder. “You should carry him next time. Simply turn into a large enough creature and—“

“I am _not_ turning into _anything_ ,” the Maia interrupted in a tone of a haughty dismissal.

“And who whined about the sheep the entire way?” Melkor retorted mercilessly and it earned him a smack to the head administered by the dragon with the tip of his tail. It had absolutely no effect, except perhaps magnifying the already nigh infinite terror flooding the minds of all bystanders.

“Those are your sheep I tend,” Ancalagon reminded matter-of-factly, conveniently forgetting to mention that he had grown fond of the seemingly mindless animals. “Should I eat them all and relieve both you and myself of those troublesome creatures?”

“Do _not_ eat the sheep,” said Melkor and Mairon in perfectly synchronised voices without even intending to do that.

Seeing the Vala’s wide grin, Mairon realised that his desperate need to return to their moutain had slightly diminished because of reasons he had no time to examine at the moment. It was an interesting observation, though, this previously unacknowledged fact that no matter the place, Melkor’s presence was seemingly enough to make him feel at ease. Then Melkor wrapped an arm around the Maia’s waist and pulled him closer to his side, and mild annoyance swept the comfort away as if it was never there.

“What is wrong with your friends here?” the Vala asked as he looked upon the Elf and the Dwarf clinging to Mairon’s shadow. They were too terrified to utter so much as a single word.

“They are not my friends,” he answered in exasperation, trying to pry Melkor’s hand away from his waist. He would probably achieve a greater success in unravelling entire Arda with just one song of power than in escaping the Vala’s grabby hands. “These are—can you be serious for a moment?”

“Oh, I don’t know, is there any reason for me to be?” Melkor asked, joyous grin blossoming on his face as though he was having the time of his life.

“Eru, give me patience,” Mairon muttered to himself and silently wondered how it was possible for him to think that Melkor’s presence had a calming effect on him mere _minutes_ before the present moment, in which he wished he had one of his hammers with him so that he could beat some sense into his irksome companion. Thus instead of that, he quickly recalled all Westron words he knew and looked at Durin and Thranduil, trying to regain at least _some_ of his dignity. Or at least what little of it could be regained with Melkor draped over all over him. “My lords, let us relocate back to your tent so Ancalagon may deal with Smaug on his own terms, shall we?”

Thranduil blinked and looked at him in panic, while Durin kept staring at the dragon, his face getting gradually redder with each passing minute. It was probably going to end up in a truly memorable outburst of fury.

“I...” the prince mumbled and shook his head. “Yes. _Yes_ , I think it—“

“No,” Melkor cut him in, his Westron bearing a noticeable Valarin accent he did not care to lose. Thranduil seemed almost startled at that unexpected interruption. “If anything, we will go up there to the ruins. I must see this, Mairon. I might be forced to intervene.”

The Maia blinked and shot him an inquiring glance, both surprised and confused at that sudden change of mood. He did not bother with wasting time on asking questions and let his doubts be carried through the unbreakable threads connecting their minds together, knowing well that it would relay his doubts and feelings much better than any words he could possible think of. The Vala was apparently prepared for this and met him halfway with answers of his own, weaving an intricate tale of worry and determination centring around the nauseating certainty that an unforeseen mistake such as the one they were facing could be enough for the rest of the Valar to hold them responsible for breaking the peace treaty.

Acting on an impulse he had no intention of fighting back, Mairon took Melkor’s hand and squeezed it tightly, for once determined to forgive him for those annoying attempts to cover his anxiety and worries with false joy and untimely bursts of clinging.

“Then we shall go to the ruins,” he agreed and was rewarded with a bright smile that stirred in him a pleasant and mushy wave of affection he would furiously denied to have experienced if ever asked about it. He would never get tired of seeing it, though.

Then something sharp touched his thigh and he looked down in bewilderment only to see the blade of Durin’s axe cutting into his perfect robes. His blood boiled at the sight.

“Durin!” Thranduil gasped in panic and tried to drag the Dwarf away. It would most likely be easier for him to move a mountain using only his bare hands.

“What does that little creature think it is doing?” Ancalagon boomed in a deeply amused voice.

“What do you think you are doing, _Dwarf_?” Mairon echoed after the dragon, his own tone low and dangerously calm. The Dwarven king, apparently hell-bent on making the biggest mistake of his life, disregarded the question entirely and bared his teeth in an uncontrollable snarl.

“Get _lost_ ,” he growled, determined to shake off Thranduil’s hands. “Leave now before I cut you in two!”

Mairon stooped a bit to look into the Dwarf’s eyes as he pushed the blade away from his robes. It left a tiny, almost unnoticeable cut, but it was right _there_ , ruining his favourite robes, and it made Mairon consider to give in to the temptation to simply grab the axe and melt it in his hands in front of its suicidal owner.

“You are welcome to _try_ ,” he hissed, letting his fire awaken and shine in his eyes. _Mortals,_ he thought with disdain. Why had Eru invented the mortals in the first place?

“Mairon, what had you done to him before I arrived?” Melkor chuckled, his amusement obvious to everyone. Then he crouched in front of the raging Dwarf and pointed at the surprised Maia. “What did he do?”

Durin shot him a furious glare that spoke volumes about the state of his mind. Mairon begrudgingly considered the possibility that fear lay underneath all that rage and fuelled it relentlessly with its toxic fumes. He remembered what it was like to feel powerless and lost in a world intent on bringing ruin to everything he held dear.

He had endured it for three hundred years of Melkor’s imprisonment.

“We were all doing just fine,” Durin almost spat as he let his thoughts out in a torrent of words he was seemingly incapable of holding back, “and then _he_ showed up with the offer of help I did _not_ ask for and do _not_ want, but apparently no one cares about it, and then you,” he poked Melkor in the chest, which elicited another burst of laughter, “arrived with that... _abomination_ as if you were invited. As if you—you _owned_ my mountain!”

If it were Mairon’s chest being jabbed at, the Dwarf would have already been reduced to a pile of ashes. The Maia was grateful to Eru that Melkor seemed to have accumulated considerably large store of patience during the last two ages. Or maybe he simply found Durin too entertaining to get angry at him. At least for the time being.

“As it happens,” the Vala said after a while, his cheerful tone perfectly masking the solemnity he had shown earlier, “I _am_ rather entitled to it. And to Arda itself as I had—“

“Melkor!” Mairon exclaimed, unsure whether he should be furious, or perhaps terrified at the flippancy with which the Vala dropped that comment. Thranduil’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not let out so much as a sound.

“—anyway,” Melkor hesitated and – finally – seemed to consider his next words more carefully, “I have come merely to take my dragon back, not to raze this mountain to the ground. Not this time, that is.”

“You are _not_ touching _my_ mountain!”

“If I wanted to, you would not be able to stop me,” the Vala smiled, his wolfish grin apparently making a greater impression than his words if Durin’s hasty step backwards was any indication. “However, that will not be a problem as I am not interested in it... at least not right now, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“You—“ Durin began again, but broke off with an uncontrollable inhale when Melkor casually brushed his finger against the blade of his axe, an intricate trail of frost flowering under his touch.

“But this is not what bothers you so much, is it not?” the Vala went on as if he were not interrupted, his voice soft and calm, almost enchanting, and Mairon found himself gaping as if he had never seen him before. “I think you are so vexed about our presence here because it means you will not get the praise for killing the dragon, even though it is rather tiny one. There will be no epic battle with Smaug and you will not be known as the king who slew him. So indulge me for a moment and tell me what you think about letting yourself be remembered as the king who knew when to step aside? Does it not sound like a deed a responsible ruler would do?”

Mairon struggled for a moment to pick up his jaw from where it had dropped to. Namely, the ground. Or even below it.

“From what I have been told,” Ancalagon said as the silence fell between them and left Durin to desperately look for words that would simply not come, “and bear in mind that my opinion is based solely on the stories you had shared, but you sound awfully like your brother right now.”

Melkor straightened slowly, turned around and looked at the dragon, a promise of the end of the world clearly visible in his eyes. Mairon hastily reached out and grabbed his hand tightly. Just in case.

“Compare me to my brother one more time,” Melkor spoke in Valarin, no longer bothering himself with Westron, “and I will raise a peak higher than the Iron Mountains and bury you beneath it.”

As he entwined his fingers with Melkor’s, trying to turn that simple gesture into a statement of support, Mairon realised that it was so easy to attribute only carelessness and playfulness to the Vala, especially having in mind nothing but lazy days joyfully spent under rapidly growing cherry trees and on occasional worrying about the rate of sheep consumption. It was _almost_ possible for Mairon to think so as well, mostly late at night when the world itself was reduced to a touch and a soft murmur of breaths, and to a safe haven of each other’s arms. And yet – deep down under the laziness and the joy and emotions to great to be expressed in simple words – there was still power too grand to comprehend and impossible to control by any being other than the one who wielded it.

Mairon forced himself to recall the destruction of the Lamps, the bursts of rage that had shaken the foundations of Arda, and the discord that had started it all. It was easy to forget, but certain things should never be forgotten.

“Do you have anything else to tell me?” Melkor asked sweetly, his eyes transfixed on Ancalagon who somehow managed to stop squirming and was now still as a statue. One awkwardly and uncomfortably plastered to the Lonely Mountain, but a statue nonetheless.

“Yes,” the dragon finally said, his tone unusually humble, “I shall deal with Smaug at once.”

The Vala smiled triumphantly at Mairon before turning his attention back to Ancalagon. “Marvellous!” he said with utter delight. “That is _exactly_ what I wanted to hear.”

“That was the _only_ answer he could give you,” the Maia commented drily and let go of Melkor’s hand when it became obvious that his volatile temper was no longer about to explode. “You do know that, do you not?”

“Oh, shush,” Melkor waved his hand and... pouted, Mairon realised with a pang of dread and exasperation, “let me have this moment.”

“Don’t you shush me!” the Maia smacked him on the arm, wondering briefly how much more bizarre the day could get. He had truly expected this entire excursion to be dull and tedious, nothing but a boring chore to be taken care of and forgotten immediately after that.

Then Melkor shot him a predatory smile – at the sight of it Mairon managed to think only, ‘ _Oh, no,’_ – grabbed him tightly by the waist and shamelessly, without a prior warning, a question, or even a _thought_ about it, swung him over his shoulder, which caused Mairon to let out the most undignified, high-pitched squeal of surprise he had ever heard from himself in innumerable aeons of his existence.

“Melkor, put me _down_ this instant!” he shrieked furiously, his face burning in embarrassment. Thranduil and Durin just stared at them both, their incredulous expressions being a testament to the depths of the absurdity the day had spiralled into.

“You would only linger behind because of these ridiculously long robes of yours,” the Vala told him cheerfully and all but jogged towards the ruins of Dale looming above the battlefield.

“You are impossible!”

“Definitely.”

“And showing off!”

“Probably.”

“And ruining our reputation!”

 _That_ finally caused Melkor to stop for a moment and tilt his head to get a glimpse of the Maia’s face.

“Mairon,” he said in a tone so serious that it immediately betrayed how much time he must have spent pondering over the subject, “we do not have a reputation. Not anymore.”

Mairon opened his mouth to retort and closed it momentarily after that, letting out only a prolonged sigh.

“Think about it, love,” Melkor continued, apparently taking that sigh as an encouragement. “Those two frightened individuals had heard our names and did not run away. Do you need any other proof to convince yourself that we have been forgotten?”

He tried to look for arguments against that reasoning, he really did. He wanted to argue that it was impossible to forget who they were and what they had done. He almost cried that as long as he existed, he would never let the memory die. And then he looked at Thranduil and Durin, who were still standing rooted to the spot where they had been left, and yes, they were terrified; but of the dragon, not them. _Definitely_ not them, because given the current situation, mortification was the only possible reaction and it was painfully obvious in their eyes when they looked at the two Ainur.

It hit him like an avalanche, the realisation that if there was no one to tell the tale, it would – sooner or later, but undoubtedly – die. And the only tale to tell now was the one of two beings satisfied with their lives in seclusion. Thus Mairon thought, ‘ _Oh’_. And then he also said, “Oh,” because there was absolutely nothing else he could possibly say.

“If you two are done...” Ancalagon chimed in impatiently, most likely frustrated because of the lack of attention.

“Yes, yes,” Melkor waved his free hand with an unnecessary flourish, “carry on. Smaug is all yours.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse.

Everything sang.

Every element, every creature, even the tiniest particle of the greatest being had its own song, unique and perfectly fitting in the Song of all songs. It was easy to listen to the rhythm of the universe as a whole, for to anyone who knew how to tune in, it was always there, all-encompassing and ever-present, unravelling with every passing minute as the world grew ever older and the symphony of its growth advanced on the way to its grand finale. The notes were known, obvious, _boring_ , and nothing ever happened anymore that would not have been heard before.

And then he had caught the whisper of _something_ , something wonderfully new and captivating; a subtle tune he had not known before. That alone would have demanded his attention, but on top of it all there was also an unexpected beauty to that song; the incomparable appeal that had seized his heart and his every thought, and had him entranced since the first second. Thus he had taken the mountain as his lair, willing to suffer the wrath of his creator and determined to never let go of the most precious of treasures.

If only he could find it.

For the treasure was nowhere in sight and yet it was everywhere, in every shadow an each crevasse between the rocks, in the gleam of gold and the silence of the mass grave the mountain had become. And yet it was nowhere, like a mist slipping between his claws, untouchable and ephemeral like a taunting mirage noticed in the corner of one’s eye, but disappearing when directly looked at. He melted the gold and clawed at the rocks, toppled the statues and crushed the bridges – and the song was still there and at the same time there was still nothing that could be singing it. It even crept into his dreams as a formless shape of the unknown and perhaps even the unknowable, and plagued his mind until he could tell no difference between dreams and reality, until the song that did not belong in Middle-earth was all he could think about.

He had not even noticed the arrival of the Flame.

The song of his essence, radiant and blindingly hot, had well nestled into the world outside the mountain before he realised what was happening. And whilst his subconscious – which had retained at least shreds of rationality – knew that the Flame had come to bestow upon him the punishment for breaking the ancient peace treaty that had bound their hands and limited their actions to a horrid, insufferable indifference, the greater, more focused part of his mind decided that it was the song and its source his creator’s right hand was truly after. Surely, he knew; they both must have known, for it was too captivating to miss – whatever it was that sang so sweetly.

And of course where the Flame went, the Dark One inevitably followed, and so it was this time as well. He did not miss his master’s arrival, though, because the world itself fell silent upon it, shifted and reorganised to accommodate the presence greater than the entirety of the mortal world—and it also brought him terror beyond comprehension.

He pondered briefly if his fire could be extinguished because of that fear, if it could become nothing but a dying ember in place of the glorious inferno he had grown used to—and then the mountain shook, the rubble blocking the entrance was pulled apart, and he realised that there was no more time for musing on uncertainties.

He moved towards the gates to look right into Ancalagon the Black’s eyes, because he would never show fear to his own kin.

He would never let them take _it_.

“Ancalagon the Black,” he hissed and unfolded his wings. It was his lair and he was going to defend it against anyone who dared to challenge him for it – be that myriads of Dwarves or the greatest dragon in existence, it mattered not.

He was not going to budge.

The light outside dimmed for a moment, when Ancalagon presumably presented his own wings in all their glory. “Smaug the Golden,” he rumbled lowly, more a growl than clearly pronounced words. It was understandable, truly; he did not expect warm congratulations for a job well done.

“Have you come to try and take me away?”

The Black snorted mockingly, producing a trail of that quickly dissolved in the air. “There will be no trying, little one,” he said and nonchalantly, as if to enforce his words, tore away a large piece of one of the pillars at the entrance. The mountain seemed to groan in protest – and so did the treasure.

He felt his fire spring to life.

“I will not be dragged away!” he roared, fuelled by fury that was just as inseparable part of him as his fire, or wings, or any other part of his body. And was it not what their kind had been made of and forged into? Fury and fire; and inevitable destruction that followed in their wake. “This is my lair and the treasure I have won all for myself. Why would you even entertain the thought of my return? _Where_ would I be returning to? The mountain and the sheep? Those pitiful creatures should be fleeing at the mere sight of us and yet you crawl in the dirt with them like the Flame’s pups. Do you not see how wasted our lives are?”

“I have not come here to listen to insults,” Ancalagon warned him and must have shifted slightly, because much brighter light reached the depths of Erebor. A sudden tremor rippled through the rocks – not entirely unforeseen, but not completely expected at the same time – causing a few loose rocks tumble down and clatter amongst the piles of gold, and in that moment Smaug realised that Ancalagon was simply going to rip the mountain apart.

“Insults?” he bellowed then, trying to draw the Black’s attention back to himself. “Insults?! This is an amusing choice of words to react to the truth! Tell me, Ancalagon, are you satisfied? Think about your days, compare them to the sole purpose of your existence and tell me you are content with your life. I _dare_ you.”

The shaking stopped, but he was not surprised to see Ancalagon’s enormous claws grabbing the edges of the gates of Erebor instead. “My life is my own,” he growled, crushing the rocks as he pressed on them, “and an unruly hatchling will _not_ question it.”

“If your life is your own, if you truly wish for naught, then why do you keep your hoard a secret?”

Ancalagon ceased his movements and only his eyes gleamed brightly as he looked at Smaug; little Smaug, so tiny in comparison, so seemingly insignificant and yet capable of rendering him speechless with just one, well times question.

Glaurung would be proud.

He slithered closer, but not too close; just outside the reach of the Black’s claws, safe and content with himself. “Did you think I was unaware of it?” he purred maliciously, delighted in the way Ancalagon’s eyes narrowed and how the low, vicious growl rumbled in his throat, loud enough to echo within the mountain halls. “Everyone knows. Our father, our brothers... obviously they all have their respective hoards, each one of them supposedly secret and well hidden. And if anyone does _not_ know, it will be our master, which only shows how little he cares about us.”

Ancalagon huffed at that, slowly clenching his talons around one of the few pillars that still remained intact. “And what do you know,” he asked with mockery, “you, who have never bothered to ask why the hoards are being kept a secret. You, who have never cared to understand the treaty we are bound by, its implications and loopholes. No, you preferred to fly over to this mountain and take it over like the impatient hatchling you are, overly and shamelessly, provoking two armies to unite against you.”

“I have simply found a treasure worth more than all of your hoards combined,” he boasted about it, throwing all caution aside. Why would he keep it a secret, when he could bath in glory of having it all to himself, this song more beautiful than anything else in the entire creation? “Do you not hear it, o mighty Ancalagon? Would you not do the same?”

“The same?” the Black repeated and let out a deafening laugh that for a moment made even the treasure’s song inaudible. “I had crushed the kingdom of Nargothrond with an army of Valaraukar by my side and no Child was any wiser, all blaming each other for the deed. You are unworthy of any treasure if you cannot obtain in a way that would not point at you as the one responsible for it. We were not created to mindlessly crush and smash everything we can reach like Tulkas does. Our master made us better than that.”

He snarled and crept forward, the fires of fury burning hot within him, blinding him and stripping him off rationality. The treasure. He _was_ good enough to have it, good enough to defend it – and no brother of his would dare to imply otherwise. “What a perfect pet you are,” he hissed, unheeding the sounds of rocks crushed under Ancalagon’s claws, “defending your master with every word and action. You are undeserving the name of the Urulókë, you lazy worm rolling in grass and shit amidst the sheep! You should revel in your success, taking pride in yourself and letting everyone know that Nargothrond fell at your hands and fire, instead of pretending it was not you for the sake of the agreement with which we should not concern ourselves.” He slid even closer and bared his teeth. “Or perhaps you are simply a coward,” wings unfolded and tail waggling madly behind him, he spat those words, uncaring of how much of a challenge they were, “who trembles in fear of his master. You call _me_ a hatchling? At least I am not afraid of a Vala who has not used his powers in thousands of years!”

Ancalagon did not move, did not even blink for a while so long that Smaug began to suspect he failed to deliver hurtful enough words. He expected them to enrage the Black; they would certainly do that to _him_ if he were the one at whom they would have been directed – and that lack of reaction made him snort, because if he ever needed a confirmation or his conclusion, that would be it. No action, no defence – just like their master.

“Well,” Ancalagon finally said, “you should be.”

Before he could so much as blink, not to mention retreat deeper into the mountain, he was being hurled outside with bone-crushing force. He had never seen Ancalagon move so swiftly – never even expected him to, given the sheer magnitude of his brother’s size – but somehow he was not surprised. Every single one of the Urulóki was graceful, no matter the size or shape, and perhaps they owed that particular trait to the Flame, ever elegant and deceptively delicate.

Rocks and gravel cut into his wings as he hit the ground and desperately tried to lessen the force of the impact. Something broke with a sickening crunch and he could not even tell if it was a bone or perhaps one of the war machines littering the plateau, for the fury that made him scramble back onto his feet dulled every sensation other than bloodlust. He lurched forward with a roar, distantly registering that it was indeed his right wing hanging limp at his side. He stubbornly ignored it, because the only alternative was probably chewing it off and that required time he did not have. Neither did the treasure – it had to be protected, and who was he if not its chosen guardian? It had sung to him, _called_ to him, and he was going to defend it until his last breath.

In front of him, Ancalagon crouched and roared, spreading out his wings for a moment before folding them and leaping towards him, nothing but claws and teeth and pure power of the fiery draconic spirit. And perhaps that was the only way to go – facing a seemingly undefeatable enemy in a glorious duel that would be remembered as the day when the greatest of dragon was proven to be vulnerable just like the rest of his brothers.

“That is enough.”

And just like that, at those here words spoken in a voice colder than the Helcaraxë, Ancalagon veered to the side, suddenly bereft of his innate grace as the momentum carried his gargantuan body right into the ruins of Dale. He stopped himself somehow, in a truly impossible feat that was nothing but a flurry of madly beating wings and desperate clawing at the rocks—and it would have been funny if not for the one who just spoke.

Smaug turned around, slowly and hesitantly, and found himself face to face with his creator.

“Master,” he purred and crouched, curling his tail gracefully around himself. His wing was beginning to throb, but he was going to hold on to dignity and pride, rather than allow himself to cower in fear.

After all, for yet another time this day he reminded himself that the Dark One was no longer someone to be afraid of.

“Smaug the Golden,” his master said and even though his voice was quiet, it could be heard by everyone on the battlefield. Perhaps the world itself had simply fallen quiet, allowing the reclusive Vala to get all the attention he deserved. “What is it that you think you are doing here?”

 _The treasure_ , he thought, _protect the treasure._

“I have conquered this mountain for you, master,” he preened, bowing his head with grace Ancalagon could only dream of. “It is the purpose of my existence, is it not? To conquer and overcome any obstacles that might stand in your way. I did good, did I not? Are you proud of me?”

The Dark One’s expression was unreadable and for all his rumoured hatred towards the stars, his eyes looked just like them – cold and distant, untouched by emotions and reflecting only the incomprehensible depths of his nature. “Good?” he repeated and there was something in his deceptively calm voice, a shadow of emotion underlying his tone that was too subtle to be understood. “You dare to claim you did _good?_ You brainless, irresponsible child! Oh, you did _not_ do good. And I am without a doubt not proud of you.”

Smaug recoiled and bared his teeth, feigning surprise he did not feel in the slightest. Since Ancalagon had landed – and perhaps even before that, perhaps he expected that ever since he had given in to the treasure’s song – he knew that no praise awaited him, no understanding or commendation. And maybe that was what had truly driven him away, what had made him restless and frustrated, what had pushed him right into the enchanting embrace of the forbidden. If that was what allowed him to fulfil the purpose of his existence, then so be it. He would accept the consequences with pride and dignity.

He was an Urulókë. If he had an over-abundance of any personality trait, it would definitely be pride.

“I did nothing but what you had created me for!” he bellowed and only a shocked murmur rippling through the crowd of Dwarves and Elves made him aware that he spoke in Westron instead of Valarin. A grimace on the Dark One’s face told him that the Vala realised that as well, so he might just as well stick to the Common Speech now. It changed nothing, but maybe the greater audience was exactly what he needed. “I challenged and burnt and _won_ , just like you always wanted us to! Do you truly expect us to adhere blindly to a peace treaty that should have never affected your followers?”

The Vala approached him slowly and not a flicker of emotion appeared on his face. Smaug did not know him that well – or maybe even at all, being too young and too independent, too engrossed in what the world outside their little enclave had to offer – and he was unable to tell if that passive indifference was a good sign, but he suspected that trails of frost that flourished beneath the Dark One’s armoured feet could hardly be considered a good sign.

“You speak of matters you know nothing about,” the Dark One said in Valarin, apparently unwilling to lower himself to using Westron. “Even more so, you dare to question my decisions, as if you know better what is necessary to protect you all from my brother’s wrath. Is that what you want to achieve through your infantile actions? Have you considered how gravely you jeopardised the safety of your kin?”

He wanted to—no, he _needed_ to move, to retreat back into the mountain, because reality began to distort around the Dark One, to fluctuate and melt into an ever-changing pool of possibilities, and it made his scales itch. Not only with fear – he crushed the mere thought about fear and refused to consider it – but because the essence of his being responded in kind to what it entailed. It was a prelude to a song, an opening note to gathering of power, after which even the treasure itself fell silent, expectant and unsupportive.

“You ensure our safety, master,” he said hastily, fighting back desperation and an urge to submit. Never before had he been afraid of his creator, so why would his stomach sink and his heart beat frantically now? “Do you not? You are the one shielding us from your brother. Would you not defend us if we were in danger? Would you stand aside and let us suffer?”

The Vala stopped in front of him and reached out a hand. Smaug hesitated for a moment, but eventually lowered his head and nuzzled into it, still cold to touch even through the armoured glove, but familiar and comfortable; just like it was before hundreds of years, when he had been just a hatchling straight out of the egg.

“Smaug, Smaug, Smaug,” the Dark One said, gently caressing his muzzle, “of course I would protect you. I _will_ protect you all, even if the threat is one of you.”

Smaug’s eyes snapped wide open when the tender touch turned into a firm grip on his jaw, unbreakable and unshakeable, immobilising him in place no matter how forcefully he was beating his wings, or how desperately he was clawing at the ground. He looked into the Dark One’s eyes and they were cold; and he thought that maybe he should have been afraid after all.

The Vala’s other hand found its way to Smaug’s head as well and rested between his eyes. “Fire,” he whispered and the dragon’s fire roared to life within him, hotter than ever before, overwhelming him and scorching his insides. He would have wailed if only he could utter a sound. “You have proven yourself undeserving of the fire I gave you,” the Dark One continued and the fabric of reality coiled around him. “Moreover, I can sense no remorse in you, no solidarity with your kin that you might have condemned by your foolhardy actions. And all of that, for what?” He felt a single note probe into his mind, digging deeper than the treasure ever had. “For a mere trinket?”

 _Yes_ , he wanted to say, but his mouth was clasped shut, so all he could do was think. Loudly, spitefully, defiantly – for the first time in hundreds of years of his life. _For it is worth it. And I will not relinquish it to anyone. Certainly not to you._

“Ah,” the Vala said and smiled, although there was no joy in his expression. “So that is what I sense in your mind. Greed beyond reason, like a parasite consuming you from within. Your insistence on defending it would have been admirable if only there had been a reason for it. I do not care about whatever lodged itself in that mountain.”

 _You do not care about anything anymore,_ Smaug retorted and he would have spat and breathed fire, burning everything to the ground, the Vala included. Alas, all he was able to do was writhe in pain and trash madly in vain hopes of escaping the Dark One’s grip. _You are simply sitting on top of your mountain, wasting centuries away. You could have ruled the world, o Dark One, but you settled for being the king of nothing instead._

The Vala gritted his teeth and the ice around his feet sprang to life, crawling up Smaug’s legs and gnawing away at his scales one by one. Even the air seemed colder, bringing to mind misty mornings that reigned between autumn and winter, full of frost and quietness of the world preparing for slumber. “You deem yourself worthy of questioning my choices?” he asked and every word jabbed into Smaug with the fury of snowfalls over the Helcaraxë. “You dare to doubt me? Me, the most powerful of all Ainur; me, the one who had sung this world into being?”

A snowflake landed on his nose, then another followed it and in a matter of minutes there were dozens of them in the air, but he paid them no attention. The Flame was shouting something in the distance, he heard it perfectly but chose not to listen despite his proficiency in Valarin. He let the words fall empty, ignored. Whatever they were, the Flame most likely wanted to placate the Dark One just like he always did; being the obedient and loyal pet unaware of his leash. Perhaps it was the frost that made Smaug indifferent, or maybe the numbness caused by the treasure’s silence. Whichever it was, all that mattered was the coldness settling in his body, radiating from the ground and the Vala’s hand alike, making his breathing laboured and his joints stiff. His grace was gone, and so was and the spark that always pushed him to fly higher and faster, to reach the edges of the world and challenge its borders with the dreams of what lay beyond.

 _Why_? he asked. His thoughts became mushy and muddled, scattered just like the Dwarves had been upon his arrival. He was not meant to be exposed to the cold so harsh it even reduced his fire to a paltry ember. _You could have walked away. Those mortals and their affairs are of no concern of yours. You could have—_

“You are a part of me, Smaug the Golden. And I have made a vow.”

 _Then break it!_ he wanted to scream, but all he managed was a mental whisper. Had he been stronger, had the cold abated and allowed him to think, his weakness might have worried him. Instead, here he was, trembling like a mortal elder on the brink of death.

“So many years and you still cannot comprehend the way the Ainur’s actions and choices shape the world,” the Dark One’s voice was scolding, but a subtle tone of amusement could be heard. And the force of his unrelenting grip on Smaug’s jaw still betrayed how great a fury boiled within him. “You were my responsibility and I have failed you. For that I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

 _Save your apologies_ , he muttered and focused his attention on the treasure; still unknown, still unseen. It finally began to sing again and its song was that of a terror of yore. His fire flickered to life once more, desperately trashing in the frigid cage of his body—and _oh,_ so _that_ was what it was!

And then the cold blew away the remnants of his flames, and Smaug the Golden was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry?
> 
> Notes on the universe: as only Fëanor, his sons, his followers, and a handful of other individuals left Valinor for Middle-earth, Nargothrond became his domain. Unable to determine who was responsible for its destruction, he blamed Thingol and went to war with him over both the city and his treasure (including a few trinkets of great personal value that will make an appearance in one of future installments in this series). It was Ancalagon who sacked the city, because Glaurung got too fat and content with his life on the mountain ~~of madness~~
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


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